Dearly Devoted Dexter (Dexter, #2)

by Jeff Lindsay

It really is better to be lucky than to be good.

The key to a happy life is to have accomplishments to be proud of and purpose to look forward to,

In fact, from what I had observed it was quite possible for one to actively dislike one's girlfriend, although of course true hatred is reserved for marriage.

everyone else in the world were to mysteriously disappear, I would feel irritated about it only because there would be no one to make me doughnuts.

Still, it was very comforting somehow to see the predatory zest Cody and Astor brought to something as harmless as hangman. Their enthusiasm for hanging the little stick figures made me feel a bit more like we might all be part of the same general species.

I often find myself in situations where it seems to me like everyone else has read the instruction book while poor Dexter is in the dark and can't even match tab A with slot B. It usually relates to some natural human emotion, something that is universally understood. Unfortunately, Dexter is from a different universe and does not feel nor understand such things. All I can do is gather a few quick clues to help me decide what kind of face to make while I wait for things to settle back onto the familiar map.

And a man who discovers his pants are on fire tends to have very little time to worry about somebody else's box of matches.

Was this what it was like to be human? Were people actually so miserable and brainless that they looked forward to this—to spending Friday night, precious time off from wage slave drudgery, sitting in front of a television with a can of beer? It was mind-numbingly dull, and to my horror, I found that I was getting used to it.

Curses on you, Doakes. You're driving me normal.

It's always me, isn't it? I'm not really a very nice person, but for some reason it's always me that they come to with their problems. Oh, Dexter, a savage inhuman monster has taken my boyfriend! Well damn it, I'm a savage inhuman monster, too—didn't that entitle me to some rest?

In two nights I would turn loose the Passenger at last, slide into my true self, and fling the sweat-stained costume of Dearly Devoted Dexter into the garbage heap.

What would I see when I died? I can't really bring myself to believe in the soul, or Heaven and Hell, or any of that solemn nonsense. After all, if human beings have souls, wouldn't I have one, too? And I can assure you, I don't. Being what I am, how could I? Unthinkable. It's hard enough just to be me. To be me with a soul and a conscience and the threat of some kind of afterlife would be impossible.